On Breaking
by Whirlwind18
Summary: “Hey, Helga,” Arnold greets them, taking in Helga's appearance a bit anxiously, his voice low and strangled-sounding. “You look really nice.'” /A few moments in the life of Stella Shortman, six months post-TJM./
1. On Breaking

**Author's Note** :

Hello to you, lovely reader. Hey Arnold is amazing and you are, too.

* * *

Though I battle blind

Love is a fate resigned

Memories mar my mind

Love, it is a fate resigned.

-Amy Winehouse

/A few moments in the life of Stella Shortman, six months post-TJM./

* * *

 **1: On Breaking**

She's rifling through the shoebox again, breathing in every inch of its dust-coated contents. Sometimes it's as if she feels she might become a part of the scenes in the pictures simply by looking hard enough. It's been six months already, and she still can't get enough. She could pore through these pictures for hours. She could pore through them for the rest of her life.

"Oh, look, Miles, have you seen this one yet? It's Arnold at his second birthday party!" Stella exclaims. "Look, you can tell he's exactly two. He can stand up on his own."

Miles grabs the somewhat ancient photograph with fevered hands, his mouth slightly parted in anticipation. "Hmmm. Sweetheart, look closer - it's got to be his third birthday. There are three candles on the cake."

"Three candles! _Threeee caaaandles_! But one's for good luck, of course!"

Both Shortmans blink as Gertie springs from the rocking chair to her feet, hair tumbling in wild gray curls from her bun. It's always difficult to tell whether she's asleep or listening - sometimes it seems she does both at once.

"Why, Tex had a fabulous time at that birthday party!" Gertie continues spiritedly. "We were roaring and singing, we were hollering and hooting! The Ringling brothers themselves were there! Elephants everywhere!"

"Pookie, not you and your story about the Ringling brothers again!" Phil looks on rather crossly from the doorway, with a pointed glare in his wife's direction. He's still a bit irritated after being served radish juice and uncooked steaks for dinner, Stella supposes. But Stella, who's eaten every kind of dish imaginable over her course of years on the planet, finds Gertie's unique culinary tastes simply charming. She always has.

"Why shucks, Slim. But we had such a grand old time!"

"We did not." Phil moves closer to the couch, bending to examine the pile of scattered snapshots on the coffee table. "We've never had a pair of Ringlings, or an animal bigger than Abner, in this house in our entire lives."

"Oh yes," Gertie says, shrugging. "I must be thinking of the Battle of the Alamo. We brought in war elephants for the occasion, you know."

"Oh, look at this one, Stella," Miles says breathlessly, dangling another photograph in his wife's face. This picture appears to have been taken in a classroom. A young Arnold, perhaps six or seven, is laughing in front of a chalkboard with a wide gap in his mouth where his two front teeth should be. He has one arm slung around an equally gummy-smiled little Gerald Johanssen.

Stella takes the photo in her own hands. She brings it up to her face, so close she could kiss it.

"Oh, I love this," she says.

"And take a gander at this one here," Phil chuckles richly. "Oh, _mercy_ , this is when Pookie and I took Arnold to the park and he lost his hat in the sandbox. Gust of wind blew by and swept it right off his head. We must'a spent the whole day running all over the city, trying to track that thing down. Wasn't the first or last time we had to chase after that hat, either."

"Well, where was it?" Miles asks.

"The sandbox!" Phil shouts. They all laugh at this punchline, their voices hearty and full of the kind of lifelong love one can only have for family.

But the happiness that floods her heart is splintered. It's broken, like shards of glass that will never form one whole again, no matter how desperately she wants them to.

"Something wrong, Stella?" Phil asks, seeming to notice the faraway look in her expression.

Miles reaches over to rub her shoulder. His hand is warm. But his eyes are full of something lost and wild.

Like Stella, he carries the jungle in those eyes. Like Stella, he carries all of those broken-winged butterflies and all of those dead bodies.

She's beginning to understand that the two of them always will.

* * *

"I knew Grandpa was lying about the killer clowns!"

Stella laughs. "Don't be too hard on him, Arnold. He just wanted to make you happy."

"Oh, I know," Arnold smiles. "But it's nice to finally know the truth."

"It's nice to finally tell you the truth." She kisses him on the forehead. "Well, you'd better rest up for school tomorrow. You don't want to fall asleep in class."

"One more story, Mom. Just _one_ more. Please?"

Arnold's face is glimmering with anticipation, his eyes round and hopeful. He's usually so reserved: calm, adult-oriented, endlessly mature. But wrapped up in his green blanket and button down pajama top, wearing the expression of an eager puppy, he looks younger than almost-twelve years old.

It would fill Stella up, if only she could make it last forever. "Honey, it's almost eleven 'o clock."

"I know, but you didn't even get to the part about the Green Eyes' Summer Solstice ceremony. You were going to tell me about their traditional garb. And the annual battle reenactments commemorating the preservation of the secret site from the river pirates. And what about the maize-based breakfast feasts?"

"We have all the time in the world for that," Stella tells him, laughing again. "Just not tonight. We can talk more tomorrow, I promise."

"Okay," Arnold agrees. His eyes soften and he leans back into his pillow, the exhaustion suddenly evident in his slightly drooping mouth. "We'll talk more tomorrow, Mom."

Stella brushes one hand gently across her son's scalp, pushing back several tufts of his messy yellow hair. Arnold's eyes begin to close at her touch.

"We'll have dinner together tomorrow," Stella continues, her voice growing softer. "As a family. I'll make potatoes and stew and _arroz con leche_."

" _Arroz con_ _leche_?" Arnold repeats sleepily.

"You'll like it."

"Okay," Arnold says, his eyes now firmly shut.

"I'll tell you all about the traditional Green Eye garb. And you'll tell me all about your science project. And Helga and Gerald. And everything else about the sixth grade."

"Deal," Arnold agrees. His breathing turns heavier. He's fading out and away from her, making his way into his dream world once again.

Stella lifts herself from the bed. She turns to give her boy one last glance before she makes her way towards the light switch on the wall.

She squeezes her eyes shut. And for a moment, just one moment, she sees him again: a baby curled up in diapers, thumb in his mouth. The mobile over his crib plays shepherd to the pools of city lights that swim in through the sky window. The room floods with them - flashing reds and blues and yellows. She runs to the crib, and she holds him again. She sings soothing lullabies for her Hillwood son.

But it's only a moment.

When she opens her eyes again, the baby is gone.

* * *

They take a walk on a white-skied Sunday, snow boots crunching across the muddied sidewalks. Arnold had informed them back in the fall - gently, though that didn't seem to soften the message's blow - that walking to school together every day was Just Not An Option. Neither was meeting him in his classroom for a Wednesday family lunch. Regular visits to watch him play dodgeball or run in circles around the gym floor in P.E. class were also to be strictly avoided.

So they'd compromised on a scheduled weekend walk, one which would be specially designated for the three of them. Phil and Gertie have adhered diligently to this unspoken rule, understanding without being told that the younger members of the family appreciate the time on their own. The only person who occasionally (often) impedes on their alone time is one Helga G. Pataki.

Stella doesn't mind. She has a brusque presence, but there's something about the little girl that she finds fascinating. Maybe it's her fervent expressions, or her intelligent wisecracks, or all of it combined. Despite Helga's rather dark undertones, she manages to add a certain lightness to their family sessions - a lightness that none of the three Shortmans possess on their own. Quite aside from the fact that Stella and Miles owe their lives to her, Stella likes Helga Pataki on her own merits.

"So, Football Head, what do you think we should do today?" Helga asks. Her fingertips just barely graze Arnold's; touching but not quite holding hands. "Should we show your mom and dad our techniques for throwing rocks at dumpsters? Steal a couple sundaes from Slausen's?"

Arnold laughs, but Stella doesn't miss the slightly red tint in his face. The kids frequently grow flustered in each other's presence, their awkward adolescent nerves jangling and clattering back and forth in off-key piano medleys.

"She's just kidding," Arnold clarifies unnecessarily to Miles and Stella. "Why don't we take a walk around the park?"

"That sounds like a good plan," Stella agrees, smiling.

They set off, letting Arnold and Helga set the pace.

"So tell us how school is going," Miles says. "Anything new?"

"Well, we got assigned a science project yesterday," Arnold says. "Gerald's going to make a volcano with vinegar and baking soda. I thought that sounded cool. But I can't decide what I want to do yet."

"I'm gonna make a schematic diagram of the Cretaceous period," Helga pipes up. "But only the carnivores. The plant-eaters are lame."

"Yeah, Helga really knows her dinosaurs. And..." Arnold pauses for a second, giving Helga a sideways glance. "And... Mr. Simmons told us there's a dance coming up in February for Valentine's Day."

Helga's face flushes, but she trains her eyes firmly on the ground in front of her.

"You know, a boy-girl dance where we're supposed to dress up," Arnold continues, still refusing to look away from the pigtailed girl at his side.

"Yeah, and like I told you before," Helga snarls at him suddenly. "Don't get any ideas about that, cause _I'm_ sure as heck not going. I hate all that stuff."

"But - I..." Arnold says, tentatively, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I just thought it might be kind of fun."

"It won't be."

"They might have some good snacks, Helga. Like punch and... pretzel sticks and... maybe cookies."

Helga rolls her eyes. "Well, _criminy_ , no one told me there'd be cookies. Now my whole life perspective has shifted."

Arnold continues to stare at her, his expression full of something yearning and hesitant. Finally, he leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

For a moment, Helga has the look of someone who's been melted from the inside out with some sort of inner-body hot iron. Sheer joy seems to be emanating from her pores in rivulets. But the second Arnold starts to smile, she shakes herself of it like a dog shaking water from her fur.

"Quit _grinning_ like that, Arnoldo," she snaps. "Do you always have to look at me like I'm some kind of circus freak?"

"No," Arnold says quickly, his eyes widening and fingers fumbling at her words. "Of course not. I mean - that's not how I was trying to look at you. Anyway, I don't really care about the dance that much. It's probably better that we don't go."

"Alright alright, if you _have_ to be so demanding!" Helga responds dramatically, throwing up her arms. "I guess we can go, but don't say I never did you any favors."

Arnold smirks at her. "I won't."

They walk a delicate tight rope, Helga and Stella's little boy. Over the course of the past few months, they've taken to baiting each other, as though silently daring the other to be the next one to put something new on the line. Every time Helga isn't sharp-tongued or insult-laden, Arnold takes blatant notice, and she responds with equal parts embarrassment and delight. And every time Arnold initiates some small gesture that indicates the two are more-than-friends, Helga's enthusiasm swells immediately to boiling, adding an extra layer of awkwardness to the air that Miles and Stella mostly dutifully ignore.

"Well, good," Helga says coolly, shifting awkwardly on her feet.

They continue on like that for the rest of the walk, Miles and Stella answering to the kids when they want to be answered to, and letting them ramble on their own when they want to be left to themselves.

The kids focus on each other more than anyone - it's inevitable, even on family walks. It's normal. But it doesn't stop Stella from faltering, confusion washing over her in spite of her fondness for the little girl.

"Hey, we should get you home soon, Helga," Arnold says an hour later, looking down at the watch Miles gave him for Christmas. They're making their way out of the park at that point, moving back in the direction of the boarding house. "It's almost two 'o clock. You and your mom have that group at three, don't you?"

"Oh yeah," Helga grumbles darkly. She crosses her arms over her chest. "That'll be a barrel of laughs, as usual."

"I think it's good for you guys."

"Well, AA is _supposed_ to be good for alcoholic misfits and their traumatized children. It's just too bad Miriam has the willpower of a wilted rag."

"Have a little faith, Helga," Arnold says optimistically. "She just needs time."

Arnold casts a meaningful glance in his parents' direction. His eyes say it all: _I love you, but please don't come along._

Stella looks at her husband. Miles clears his throat. "Well, Arnold, your mother and I should be getting home soon to, uh... um... pick up our medication. Post traumatic stress disorder, you know."

"Good idea," Helga says, nodding earnestly. "Go for the drugs, big time, Miles. I sure as heck would."

Arnold brushes his hand gently against hers and they take off, walking in perfect step with one another. Miles and Stella stand watching their retreating frames until they're completely gone from view.

"It's really something, isn't it?" Miles remarks, shaking his head.

"It is," Stella agrees. "There are no words for it."

She rests her head on his shoulder for a moment, wishing the painful hammering in her chest would go away.

* * *

Stella tries not to be greedy.

But the truth is, she's hungry. There are holes inside of her. She can't seem to fill them. No matter how hard she tries, she always wants more.

She's never felt so much at once. She was the level-headed one; the smart and resourceful woman. She was independent and she was proud of who she was. Always.

 _Am I still?_ she wonders now, staring at her weathered reflection in the bathroom mirror. It's an otherworldly sensation, to look so much older in the mirror than she remembers being. Where did the youthful glow in her eyes go? When did her cheeks grow so skeletal, her face all bones and angles where it used to be rounded and full?

And when did she become the mother of this boy - a boy no longer little, but teetering on the brink of young adulthood? A boy who learns to set clear boundaries, even while his parents can't stop clinging?

* * *

"You look so beautiful, Stella."

She's sitting on the quilted bedspread, rubbing her fingers along each red and blue thread. All she's wearing is a nightdress; her eyes tired and worn; her hair uncombed.

Miles sits down beside her. The bed springs creak underneath the weight of his body. His eyes, Stella can see, are glossed with tears.

"I'm so happy," he tells her, taking her hands in his. "I feel like I could cry, every moment of every day, because we're here. I love you so much."

"I love you, too," Stella says. She leans over and kisses him, just as full, as magical, as tender as the day they kissed for the first time. She had known, well before the instant her mouth touched his: she wanted to spend her life with Miles Shortman.

And she has.

"We're so lucky," Miles says after a moment. He brushes a strand of hair from her forehead. "I think I'm the luckiest man in the world."

For a moment, Stella lets herself hesitate. She wants the man in her arms to know. She wants to let the darkness in her heart seep inside of him; let him touch away her sorrows, kiss away the fear.

"You are," she says instead. "And I am, too... so happy, Miles."

He smiles into her hair. They turn off the lights.

But Stella lies awake, long after her husband is snoring, her eyes on the ceiling, her stomach in her throat.

* * *

"Man, Arnold looks so _weird_ in all of these."

Helga is sitting on the couch, sifting through the photographs still on the coffee table - Stella has yet to put any of them away. The unibrowed little girl is waiting downstairs while Arnold finishes dressing for the dance. She looks quite pretty, Stella thinks, wearing a pink dress with spaghetti straps and her blonde hair in a half-ponytail fastened with her usual bow.

"Weird?" Stella repeats.

"Yeah, weird," Helga says. "It's like the person taking them couldn't keep a steady hand to save their life. He's all blurry and off-center in most of these."

Stella understands what she means. But she shrugs good-naturedly. "It's all we have, honey."

Helga whips her head up. Stella can see something inquisitive in her face; something wondering and almost wistful. But all she says is "oh," looking down again to continue leafing through the snapshots.

"So," Stella says, smiling kindly. "Are you excited for the Valentine's dance?"

Helga grimaces. "Nah, not really. But your son over here is so... so idealistic, ya know? He likes everything a certain way. So I go along with it. I wouldn't want to dash his weird-headed little hopes. No offense, Stella," she adds hastily. "You know I really do like his weird head... I mean... wait, that's not what I meant..."

She trails off, seeming to feel she's said too much. Her face is glowing slightly pink.

"I know," Stella says, sitting down beside her on the couch and giving her a comforting pat on the back.

"How does it feel?" Helga asks suddenly. Her eyebrow is raised, but Stella can tell she's genuinely curious. She's not the kind who asks questions for the sake of conversation. "What's it been like, being awake again after nine whole years? Isn't it weird?"

Stella stares at her for several beats. Helga's lips are parted, her eyes darting back and forth in a hurried scan of the older woman's face.

"You know, Helga," Stella says finally. "It's been over six months now, and I think you're the first person who's asked me that."

Stella's veins are pulsing with gratitude for the child in front of her.

"Really?" Helga says in surprise. "But how could people not? It must be the weirdest thing in the whole world. I mean, you can't be the same person you were before... can you?"

"In some ways, honey," Stella says slowly, now rubbing her hand in circles across Helga's back. "In some ways, I think I am. But in other ways... not at all."

Helga's eyes bear into hers like lasers.

"What has it been like," Stella asks, "Growing up here?"

"You mean, for me?" Helga blinks. "Oh, I dunno. Really sucks in a lot of ways, Stella."

"Why is that?"

"Well, my family sucks sometimes. Don't get me wrong, we're trying. But Arnold was always..." She looks down at her hands, the pink glow in her face deepening in intensity.

"What, honey?" Stella urges her, trying to swallow her own eagerness.

"Listen, I'm gonna tell you this because I trust you. But I swear, you breathe a word of this to anyone and I..." Helga winces, shuddering up and down. "Arnold was always the best part of everything for me. You know how he is now? All good-hearted, and dumb, and totally blind to reality? That's how he always was, Stella. He's just like you and Miles. I mean, criminy, I should know. I've loved the boy since I was three years old."

Stella fights frantically against the tears welling up out of nowhere in her eyes. "You have?"

"Yeah," Helga slinks further into the couch cushion, eyes full of defeat. "From the second I laid eyes on him, I was a goner. Hook, line, and sinker."

Stella tries to speak, but she can't. Her voice is trapped, caught somehow between despondency and pure euphoria.

"Does that..." Helga attempts, quaking suspiciously, as though afraid Stella might burst out laughing at her at any minute, "Do you think that's pathetic?"

"Helga," Stella manages. She can't help it: she presses her lips against the little girl's forehead, kissing one of her only sources of hope. "No, I don't. It's the least pathetic thing I can think of, actually."

"I have more, Stella," Helga mumbles nervously. Stella isn't sure what she's talking about until she follows Helga's gaze to the coffee table. "I have a lot more than these dumb shoebox polaroids, ya know. A whole bunch of pictures. Videos. Even poems. They're my poems, not his," she adds quickly. "But they're about him. If you really want them... you can have them. But you have to promise not to tell."

Stella's heart speeds like a jackhammer. She opens her mouth to respond. Before she can get a word out, however, they hear the staircase creaking and Helga slides one hand across her throat as if to say, _Put a lid on it._

Miles and Arnold appear in the doorway, Miles' hands on his son's shoulders. Arnold is dressed in a collared shirt that matches his hat, his hair freshly washed and combed. As he draws closer, the scent of something familiar and spicy overwhelms her, and Stella wonders if Miles insisted on dousing Arnold in his cologne.

Helga might be wondering this too, judging by the vaguely lightheaded expression on her face.

"Hey, Helga," Arnold greets them, taking in Helga's appearance a bit anxiously, his voice low and strangled-sounding. "You look really nice."

"You don't clean up so bad yourself, Arnoldo," Helga replies, but Stella can tell she's barely stifling a swoon. Helga rises from the couch and gives a salute to Miles and Stella. "Well, folks, we'll be back within the hour."

"Maybe two hours," Arnold says hopefully. "Two or three?"

"Don't push it," Helga snaps as the two exit the doors of the boarding house together. Miles and Stella can still hear them arguing as they make their way down the front steps.

* * *

She's staking out the fancy cheeses section in the grocery store, pushing a cart filled with fresh produce through the crowded aisles. Grocery stores are some of her favorite things about living in the states again. It's just nice to have such a wide selection of foods available - all within walking distance and easy to buy.

Smoked Gouda? No, too strong. Accasciato? Too rich. Aged British Cheddar? No, Phil will think it smells bad.

Finally focusing in on a package of fresh mozzarella, Stella almost doesn't see the woman who brushes her shoulder as she slouches past. But a roll of Saltines drops from the woman's food basket as she's in Stella's vicinity. Ever the helper, Stella hurries to pick it up.

"Excuse me," Stella says, holding out the plastic package. "I think you dropped this."

The woman, blonde-haired and dressed in lavender, blinks at her from behind a pair of square glasses. She looks tired, and mildly bewildered, as though she can't quite figure out how she ended up here.

"Oh..." she says vaguely, taking the bag of crackers. She places it in her basket, which is filled with several bottles of wine. "Thanks."

"Hey!" Stella tells her, a jolt of recognition running through her chest. "Hi, Miriam. I'm sorry, I was lost in my own world. I almost didn't recognize you there for a second."

"Huh?" Miriam Pataki asks in confusion.

"It's me, Miriam," Stella says. "It's Stella Shortman."

"Stella Shortman?" Miriam repeats blankly, blinking.

"Arnold's mom," Stella clarifies. "Your daughter... and my son, they..."

"Oh... oh yes," Miriam replies, still wearing that dazed expression. "Arnold's mom. I remember now. Isn't that funny, it feels like you've been just everywhere lately. You know, before this year, I felt like you didn't even exist." She gives an innocuous little laugh.

"Oh," Stella says. "Well, I sort of didn't. I was asleep for nine years."

"Asleep for nine years, you say? I know how that feels," Miriam tells her, casting a guilt-ridden glance down at the bottles in her basket. "Anyway, Sarah, it's nice seeing you. I'll just be on my way."

"Miriam, wait." Stella reaches out her hand, placing it cautiously on the other woman's shoulder. "I was wondering if you... if you wanted to grab some coffee sometime. Just the two of us."

"You and me?" Miriam says. "Coffee?"

"Yes," Stella nods. "I could really use a friend. Could you?"

She watches while the blonde woman hesitates, seeming to weigh the options in her mind.

"Yes," Miriam says finally, and Stella releases the breath she hadn't realized she was holding between her teeth. "I could. And I'd really like that."

* * *

Surrounded by darkness, she breaks.

"I don't want to smile anymore, Miles."

The air between them hums and vibrates. Their bodies knot together in the too-small bed; her legs between his knees, his arms across her waistline.

His chest shakes against hers as he draws in a sharp breath of air. "What do you mean?"

"If I had to start my life over again," she whispers into the warmth of his neck, "I wouldn't do a thing differently."

"I wouldn't either, Stella. Never."

"Never," she agrees. "The Green Eyes are our family. They always will be. But I..." her voice cracks. She can feel the heat burning at the back of her throat. "I don't feel the same as I was. I don't know if I can pretend to be happy all the time anymore."

"Pretend?" Miles repeats. She knows the word tastes foreign in his mouth.

"I feel angry, Miles. I feel sad. I feel like we were cheated."

There's another breath: a long second during which the prospect of having said too much plows across her heart.

Then Miles closes in on her.

His musky scent envelopes her. His hands begin working their way through the tangles in her still white-streaked hair.

"Stella," he whispers into her ear. He begins to scatter kisses across her neck, cheeks, scalp. "Stella, honey."

"Yes."

"It's okay to be angry."

"I don't think it is. Think of all the people who died. Think of everyone who would have given anything to be in our place. To have made it out in the end, the way we did."

"If they had made it out in the end," Miles whispers in fragments, his kisses growing faster and harder, "They would be angry, too. Of course they would be. Being angry doesn't mean you're not grateful. It doesn't mean you're not strong."

"Then what?" she begs. The tears stream down her face and into the pads of his fingertips. "What does it mean?"

His eyes are sturdy, fire-filled. They're the only things she can see.

"It means you're human. And you have to accept that, Stella. You don't have to smile. All you have to do is accept that we're human, and we're going to be human for the rest of our lives."

* * *

Arnold is a gentle sleeper.

His breath curls in and out, his chest soft and graceful in its rhythmic movements.

"I love you," Stella tells the preteen. "My grown up boy."

She shuts her eyes. The baby crawls out of his crib, scared by a thunderstorm. He's alone, crying out in the night to parents who abandoned him - parents whose faces he might not remember in the morning.

"I'm sorry," Stella says, opening her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

But Arnold, almost-twelve years old, is safe and sound. He can't hear her.

She opens the door and tiptoes down the staircase, making her way through the broken light.


	2. On Growing

**Author's Note:**

If you have left me an encouraging review, I appreciate you so deeply. Y'all are simply the greatest. So yeah, thanks for existing in this cold and lonely world.

I originally intended for this story to be a one-shot. But it felt incomplete - a little too bittersweet. So here's a Part 2 that I didn't know I wanted to write. I hope you enjoy :).

* * *

 **2: On Growing**

* * *

Stella Shortman is on a mission.

It's a mission nowhere near as grandiose in scale as saving a Central American civilization from a fatal sleeping sickness - sure - but it's a mission nonetheless. And so, she feels a familiar sense of focus as she drives, her chest humming with anticipation.

Traffic in Hillwood is not for the weak or the weary. But luckily, she doesn't have far to go. She's heading straight for the Beeper Emporium, despite having come to the agreement with her breakfast partner that the two of them would meet at the coffee shop. Stella hadn't even checked the venue; she knew the other woman wouldn't be there.

When she pulls up in front of the building, she's struck with a strange dryness at the back of her throat. She knows the Beeper Emporium - large and flashy though its outward appearance may be - is mostly empty on the inside.

Swallowing, she puts the car in park and walks up to the doorway. An elaborate musical jingle goes off when she presses on the bell.

"BOB! MIRIAM!" a young girl's voice screams from inside. "SOMEONE'S HERE."

"For cryin out loud, it's Sunday! We're not open today!"

"WELL, ANSWER THE DOOR AND TELL THEM, _BOB_."

"YOU ANSWER THE DOOR!"

"YOU ANSWER IT!"

Stella hears the sounds of shuffling feet and a few exclamations of profanities. Then the door swings open, and Helga Pataki is standing in front of her in boxer shorts and a T-shirt.

"Look, we appreciate your business and all, but - " Helga breaks off suddenly, her face brightening. "Oh, hey!"

"Hi, Helga," Stella says, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek.

"You're not really trying to buy a beeper, are you?" Helga asks. She lowers her voice to a mutter. "I'd steer clear of em, Stella, they're total crap."

Stella laughs in spite of herself. "No, sweetheart, I'm here to see your mom. We had a breakfast date today."

Helga raises her eyebrow skeptically. "You and my mom?"

"Yes. I came to pick her up."

"Well," Helga hesitates, still staring at Stella like she has three heads. "Okay. I mean, whatever floats your boat, I guess."

"Is she awake?"

Helga shrugs. "Eh, probably not. MIRIAM! MIRIAM, WOULD YOU GET UP ALREADY!"

When her yell is met with no response, Helga disappears for a moment. Stella can hear her snapping at her mother, who replies with a groan of confusion before ambling towards the doorway several moments later, her hair sticking up in multiple directions.

"What? What?" Miriam says vaguely, her eyes still half-closed behind her glasses. She's dressed, but Stella has the distinct impression that she's wearing clothes from the day before; that she'd never properly gone to bed, or woken up again, for that matter.

"Miriam, hi. It's Stella. We were supposed to meet for coffee this morning, remember?"

"What?" Miriam repeats. She rubs her forehead with one hand.

"Coffee. Me and you."

"Oh," Miriam says, attempting to blink away the sleep in her eyes. "Oh, Sarah, that's right. Do you think we could do this a different day, I forgot all about -"

"No, I cleared my whole calendar for this," Stella tells her cheerfully. "Come on, Miriam. I'm driving."

Stella glances towards Helga for support. Rolling her eyes, Helga gives her mother a light shove in Stella's direction. "Go ahead, Mom, we're fine here."

"Oh," Miriam says, blinking a bit more rapidly upon the unexpected physical contact from her daughter. "Well... okay."

Stella leads Miriam across the sidewalk and to the car, its engine still running.

The sky around them is inky, tinged with dark blue and pink streaks that fade away against the crumbling concrete of Hillwood. Miriam leans her head against the passenger's window, where she stays, silent, until they arrive.

* * *

"So... Sarah... how are things... at the job?"

Miriam stumbles over her words. She grips her mug of coffee with two hands.

"I haven't started working again," Stella explains. "Not yet. We're just trying to enjoy being home as much as we can, being with our son."

"Right, right," Miriam says, nodding. "That's great."

"I'd like to apply for a job at Hillwood Medical Center sometime, though," Stella adds. "That's been my profession since I was a young woman. I worked in the medical field."

"That sounds great." Miriam nods blankly.

"And how are things going with you?"

"Oh..." Miriam begins dragging her fork across her plate, making little volcanoes out of her syrup-drenched blueberry pancakes. "They're... fine. Yeah, fine. Just business as usual."

"That's good."

"Mmm hmm."

Stella hesitates for a moment. "And your daughters? How are they?"

Miriam slumps a little further down in the booth.

"Olga is great. She's got a whole bunch of stuff going on. Teaching little children... playing the piano... the whole nine yards. She wins... a lot of medals," she trails off vaguely.

"Does she?" Stella asks.

"Oh, yeah. You should see all these things she's won. We still have them all, you know, at the Emporium. All kinds of trophies. B always liked collecting them."

"How nice," Stella says, smiling encouragingly. She takes a sip of her tea. And she waits. When Miriam merely stops talking, Stella adds, "And Helga?"

Miriam is falling, if possible, even further down into the sticky red booth. Stella can see her expression filling with an indistinct mixture of something troubled and anxious, stabbing though the weariness in her eyes like knives.

"Oh. Helga, yeah... she's good." Miriam's fingers fumble along the rim of her coffee cup. Stella folds her own hands neatly in front of her.

"You know, Miriam," Stella begins kindly, slowly, despite the envy that laces around her ribcage. She wishes she had had the luxury that Miriam did - the time to grow as a parent, to make mistakes. "We love Helga."

Miriam's eyes snap up. She looks bewildered. "You... you do? Who loves Helga?"

Stella reaches out her hand and brushes it gently over the knuckles of the woman across from her. She feels Miriam flinch at her touch.

"Me," Stella replies. "And Miles, and Phil and Gertie, and Arnold. We all love her, and we know how special she is. You're raising two strong young women."

"I..." Miriam blinks. "Well, that's a nice thing to say."

"I wouldn't say it if it weren't true."

Miriam's eyes begin to jog back and forth. She's searching Stella's face, trying to gauge the emotion in her expression, discern intent from her words. Finally, she looks down, biting her trembling lower lip.

"It's so nice to hear you say that... about my little girl." Miriam begins, her voice shaking. "She's tough, but she has a lot... inside of here." She brings the hand not holding Stella's to her chest, holding it over her heart.

Stella smiles warmly. "I know she does."

"I worry about her all the time," Miriam continues. "She... she just..." she trails off. Her eyes are beginning to water.

"It's okay," Stella tells her, giving the other woman's hand a soft squeeze. "I know. You can talk to me."

"She's always so angry at me. I don't know how to talk to her. Olga was never that way. Olga... she makes everything so much easier." Miriam sighs heavily, finally removing her hand from underneath Stella's to wipe her eyes and readjust her glasses.

"Olga and Helga are very different," Stella says. Even though she's only met the oldest Pataki daughter once before, once is enough to know the truth.

"I wish things could have been different," Miriam says, trembling. "I wish I could be a better mother. But it's too late for that now."

"I feel the same way sometimes. It hurts." Stella shakes her head fervently. "But it's never too late. I really believe that."

Miriam stares into the dregs of coffee in her mug. "I guess you must know. Helga must've told you about my... problem with drinking."

"Well," Stella says gently. "She's mentioned it in passing."

Miriam squeezes her eyes shut. A few more tears roll down her cheeks, splashing noiselessly into the mini jug of maple syrup next to her plate. She doesn't move to wipe them away this time. "I'm pathetic. It's okay... Sarah... you can say it."

Stella watches as Miriam nearly collapses, gripping the edges of the table as if to stop herself from sliding down underneath it.

"You're not a perfect person. None of us are."

Even as she says it, she hears Helga's bitter voice rushing through her mind: _"Yeah, especially Miriam."_

"I'm trying AA, you know," Miriam says, more softly this time. Morning sun is beginning to pool in through the window beside them, filling the diner with gold and white streaks of light. It pours over the table and illuminates the lines in Miriam's face: the wrinkles, the hardened edges, the marks of misery.

"And how is it?" Stella asks, her voice equally quiet. "So far?"

"So far," Miriam repeats thoughtfully. "I don't know. Sometimes okay, sometimes not the best. You know, I like the group... it just takes a lot of... a lot of... what's that word..."

"Energy," Stella suggests. "Determination. Willpower?"

"Right, right," Miriam agrees, nodding. "That."

"What about your husband? Does he support it?"

"Oh... yes... of course," Miriam tells her uncertainly. "B, well, he says he does, anyway. He just has a lot going on. It's hard work, running a Beeper Empire."

"I can only imagine."

"But B and Helga both, the truth is... they make fun of the group members sometimes. That's just how they are, when they're together. They find things to laugh about. Like Mrs. Rotweiller, they make fun of her behind her back. Just because she always stuffs her purse with flavored vodka shooters and her little chihuahua... I think his name is Popsicle. Or Poopsicle. Now can you imagine how much that would hurt Mrs. Rotweiller's feelings? I don't know about you, Sarah, but I think chihuahuas are very cute."

"Chihuahuas are cute," Stella agrees. She frowns. "I don't think I would put one in a purse, though."

"I try not to let them hurt my feelings."

"Chihuahuas?"

"B and Helga."

"But Bob and Helga do," Stella supplies. "Hurt your feelings."

Miriam hangs her head slightly. Her short, graying-blonde locks tumble out from where they had been previously tucked behind her ears. "Sometimes."

Stella nods thoughtfully.

"You know, maybe you should tell that to them."

"Tell them not to make fun of the group?" Miriam asks, as if the thought had never before crossed her mind.

"Absolutely," says Stella, nodding. "It's important to you. They should take that seriously. They should support you, and they should support the friends you're making."

Miriam pauses, seemingly considering the suggestion as she finally takes another bite of her breakfast. Stella looks down at her own half-eaten dish and picks up a piece of bacon gingerly.

"I don't know if I would call them friends," Miriam admits. "I don't have any good friends anymore. Not really."

"That's okay," Stella says. She washes down her meal with the last of her tea. "You have me."

* * *

"Now listen to this one, Mom. This music is good for when you're feeling melancholy."

Arnold presses a button on the remote in his hand. The stereo system around them blazes with another jazz number. Stella had always known her baby would have eclectic tastes - he's Miles' son, after all.

"See, it's crisp," Arnold continues, looking expectantly at his mother for her reaction. "Bluesy. Not too overwhelming. What do you think?"

"I love it," Stella tells him.

"I thought you would," Arnold beams.

"Play me something else," she says, tugging playfully at the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "Come on, I want to hear another one."

"Okay." Arnold's face is filled with determination; a display of studious concentration. He's staring hard at his collection of music, trying to find the selection that he thinks his mother will best appreciate.

It's a guessing game, for both of them. They're learning the ins and outs of each other, still.

"This one," Arnold says suddenly, his eyes lighting up. He presses another button on the remote. Dino Spumoni's crooning voice comes oozing out of the speakers, buoyant and joyful and celebratory.

The laughter that wells up from her chest is automatic, almost involuntary.

"Dance with me," she begs her little boy.

"Mom!" Arnold laughs, too. He attempts to dodge her as she pokes him in the belly, grabs him by the shoulders.

"Come on, honey. Move!"

They waltz across the rug, toppling into one another, their arms and legs an awkward mess of tangling limbs.

"You're my favorite dance partner," Stella says, breathless, showering his blonde hairline with kisses. "The best in all the world."

* * *

When the boarding house doorbell rings at ten AM the following Saturday, Stella isn't expecting Helga Pataki to be standing on the stoop, panting as she drops a large cardboard box at her feet. Her forehead is dripping with sweat; matted blonde pigtails slightly greasy and unwashed.

"Helga," Stella says in surprise. "Aren't you supposed to be at softball practice?"

"Yeah, yeah, technically," Helga tells her. She fans her face with her hand, still sweating despite the chill in the early spring air. "But I called out sick with the Indonesian swine flu."

"I see." Stella raises an eyebrow, trying her best to keep a straight face. "Interesting choice of illness to contract."

"Well, it sounds bad, ya know. I'm the co-captain, I can't just miss practice for anything."

"The strange thing is that Arnold didn't mention anything about you being sick when he left twenty minutes ago."

Helga rolls her eyes. "Yeah, like I would've told _him_. Criminy, talk about defeating the point." She cranes her neck slightly as she attempts to peer through the doorway, casting a nervous glance just beyond Stella and into the boarding house. "He is really gone, right?"

Stella smiles. "He really went to softball practice."

"Good. Cause you and I need to get something straight here." Helga gives a light kick to the box in front of her, which appears to have been sealed shut with an entire roll of duct tape. "I waited till your little sunshine son was gone for a reason. If this box, hypothetically, were to fall into the wrong hands, there's no telling what kind of humiliation I'd suffer. I'd have to skip town. Change my name. Create a whole new identity as a fisherman or something."

"A fisherman?"

"Yes, Stella, a _fisherman_."

"Well, that's... very creative."

"Listen, this is no joke. We had a deal and you have to swear you won't double cross me."

"Helga," Stella says worriedly, staring at the slightly shaky hands of the girl in front of her, the beads of perspiration still collecting at Helga's hairline. "Take a deep breath. You look a little overheated."

Helga merely shrugs. "Yeah, well," she mutters.

"Come on in and cool down for a minute," Stella tells her enticingly. "I'll get you a drink."

"Oh... alright," Helga agrees. She follows Stella inside, carefully pushing the box past the threshold of the doorway and heaving it up against the wall.

"We have milk... lemonade.. clam juice," Stella lists as the two of them make their way into the kitchen. From behind closed doors in the distance, they hear rattling yells - another one of Suzie and Oskar's fights. Phil and Gertie are already out at the movie theater, enjoying the Saturday Morning Senior Special, an exposé on the life and times of Hedy Lammar.

"Clam juice?" Helga repeats in disgust, shuddering. "Jeez, what a selection. I'll just have some water."

Stella begins busying herself pouring a glass and scraping up the scrambled eggs and toast still leftover on the stove from breakfast. She sits Helga down at the kitchen table with a blue porcelain plate of food.

"So let's start from the beginning here," Stella says calmly. Helga begins shoveling forkfuls of egg into her mouth.

"You wanthed more ancient relicth, Stella," Helga explains, simultaneously chewing and wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She swallows. "Cause Phil and Gertie took some pretty crappy pictures and all. And seeing as how you're one of the only people in the entire world I actually like..."

"You brought what you have," Stella finishes for her. She can feel warmth puddling in her chest. "Because you're a girl of your word."

Helga nods. "Anyways, they're not all that great, but I figured you might... you know, appreciate them."

Stella doesn't take the actions or words of Helga Pataki lightly. She feels the weight of her own life - hers and Miles' - in the young girl's every movement. Helga has provided it all: a heart-shaped locket to save a civilization; and now, a collection of personal materials to reveal fragments of her son's life, pieces of his childhood that Stella will never get to live in real time.

She takes a seat at the table, watching as Helga stuffs the last of the eggs in her mouth and begins casually licking her fingertips.

"Man, vese are some good eggth."

Stella smiles. "Thank you."

Tentatively, Helga smiles back.

"You know," Stella says. "I think you're a very brave person."

Helga picks up her glass and swallows a large gulp of water. "You're not gonna get all mushy on me now, are you?" she asks, but Stella thinks she looks a little pleased underneath her carefully blasé expression.

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Good."

"But I do want to know if I'm going to find any pictures of _you_ in that box," Stella says, still smiling.

Helga trains her eyes carefully on her empty plate, her hands suddenly clenching slightly. "Nah, don't be ridiculous."

"Why not?"

"No one wants to see me."

Stella watches Helga's eyelashes flutter, her fingers drumming on the table.

"I do," Stella says quietly.

Helga rolls her eyes. "Okay, I'll bring you some pictures of me, and next time you feel like puking you can whip em out and use them for inspiration."

Stella gazes at the girl across from her. "Helga, I don't know what you're talking about," she says gently. "You're beautiful, honey."

Helga's face flushes visibly. She continues staring at her plate, however, scratching her fork across it as though drawing imaginary lines in the sand.

"Look, I know I'm not pretty," she grumbles. "It's okay, you don't have to lie to me." Helga slides down in her chair, reminding Stella irrevocably of Miriam.

"When did you decide you weren't pretty?"

"When everyone _told_ me," she sneers, the toughness in her voice barely masking her vulnerability. "Anyway, like I said, it's fine, I get it. It would just be nice if my own sister weren't always trying to trip me up about it and stuff."

"Trip you up? Your sister tells you you're not pretty?" Stella asks in surprise.

"Well... not exactly," Helga crosses her arms over her chest. "But now that I'm in middle school and all I guess she feels like it's okay to be upfront about... ' _changes you should think about making with your appearance, baby sister,'_ " she raises her voice two octaves in an imitation of Olga Pataki, her face contorted with anger. "It's the worst, Stella. She's always trying to pluck my eyebrows or dress me up in her stupid clothes. She said I'd be a good case study for her and her sorority sisters. You know, a study in their skills in makeover-giving."

Stella hesitates for a moment. "And what did you say?"

"I said I'd rather swallow nails than look like the girls of Kappa Kappa Chi," Helga says crossly. "And besides, I think I'm kinda starting to like my unibrow. Why the heck do I need to get rid of it just because everyone else says so?"

"Very wise words," Stella tells her, pleased.

"Thanks."

"So how long have you been writing poetry for?"

Helga's expression fills with an odd mixture of embarrassment and happiness. She weaves her fingers together nervously, and Stella guesses that not many people have asked her - or perhaps even have an inkling of - her penchant for writing.

"Since I was a little kid, I guess," she mumbles.

"I see," Stella says, nodding. "Well, I think that's wonderful."

"Yeah, sort of," Helga replies, sinking even further down in her seat.

"Why do you like to write?"

There's a pause. Helga is looking at her a bit more thoughtfully now, blinking at the question.

"Well, I dunno," she says finally. "I guess it makes me feel..." she trails off, biting her lower lip. "Criminy, what are you trying to do here anyway? Psychoanalyze me?"

Stella can't help but laugh. "No, honey. I wouldn't know how to psychoanalyze anyone."

Seeming relieved by this answer, Helga meets Stella's eyes, her gaze suddenly heady, fire-strong. "Well, it's like this. When you write, you don't have to worry the way you usually do. You know, about how people will react to you and all. You can just... you can just let it all go and write excessively about a certain enigmatic football-headed muse and all his annoying quirks and humanitarian tendencies and irresistible appeal..." she breaks off, coming out of her sudden reverie with a wave of her hand in front of her face. "Sorry. Got a little carried away there for a sec."

Stella's smile is growing wider. But she keeps her mouth clamped firmly shut over the laugh she wants to let out.

"Well, I think that's lovely. You know, I know it's not always easy, but I think you should be proud of your writing. You love what you love. We only have so many years to live. It doesn't really help us in the end to waste so much time worrying about what everyone else thinks."

Helga strokes her chin with her hand. "Yeah, that's some wise stuff. You oughta put that on a Hallmark greeting card."

"And how have things been at home?"

"Oh, the usual," Helga grimaces. "Bob hanging on to every last shred of hope that his precious Beeper Empire can be salvaged, even though nobody's used beepers in a century."

"So... no plans yet for the Pataki family to move into their own house again," Stella concludes wistfully.

Helga rolls her eyes. "Are you kidding? At this rate we'll be living in the freaking gutters by the time I start seventh grade. We'll be a family of sewer rats."

Stella reaches her hand across the table. She brushes a loose strand of golden hair from Helga's forehead. "I'm sorry. I know it can't be easy."

Helga's expression softens at Stella's touch. She looks down at her shoes, sadness tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, well, it sucks. But at least I have Arnold," she adds earnestly.

"You have all of us."

Before Helga can reply, they hear the front door bang open. Seconds later, Arnold is calling frantically down the hallway.

"Mom! Mom, have you heard anything from Helga?"

Helga's face fills with panic. She glances around the kitchen quickly before sliding down and darting under the table, her chair scraping against the tiles, fork clattering to the floor in a rush.

"I..." Stella calls out, but leaves the word hanging in midair, unsure of what to say next.

"Coach Wittenberg told me she has the Indonesian swine flu," Arnold continues, his voice growing nearer as he makes his way towards the kitchen.

"Oh.. erm... well..." Stella begins as Arnold appears in the doorway.

"Did you hear me? She has the Indonesian swine flu..." But he stops dead in his tracks, immediately spotting Helga in her indiscreet hiding spot.

"Hey!" he exclaims, staring down at her.

"Oh... uh... hey, Football Head, how's it goin?" Helga mutters sheepishly. "Oof!" She bangs her head on the underside of the table as she attempts to stand up.

"What are you doing here?"

"The real question is what are _you_ doing here, Arnoldo?" Helga snaps, regaining some of her usual gusto in an instant. She wipes the dust off her pink dress as she stands up. "Playing hooky from softball practice, huh?"

Arnold gapes at her, the worry on his face beginning to burn into anger. "The Indonesian swine flu is deadly, Helga! Coach Wittenberg told me you were sick with it! So I ran to the Beeper Emporium and, funnily enough, your mom had no idea what I was talking about and said you'd already left for practice."

Helga rolls her eyes. "Yeah, like it would do you any good to turn to _Miriam_ for important intel."

"It's not funny. I was worried and now she's worried and you... and you're just... here, completely healthy," Arnold splutters.

"Yeah," Helga shrugs with expertly projected flippancy. "Don't get your panties all in a twist about it, alright?"

"You know, I really can't believe you sometimes. Tricking people into thinking you have a foreign fatal disease isn't okay. And you..." Arnold sighs and turns to his mother with a confused glare. "Why did you go along with this?"

"It was my idea," Stella hears herself responding before she can even stop to think about it. Both children turn to her in surprise.

"Huh?" Helga asks, mirroring Arnold's confusion.

"Well, we girls need some time together too sometimes, right, Helga?" Stella continues. "Next time we won't have her call out with the Indonesian swine flu, though. I wasn't properly thinking that one through. I'm sorry, sweetheart." She ruffles Arnold's hair apologetically.

"Yeah," Helga mumbles under her breath. "What she said."

Arnold looks suspiciously back and forth, his eyes narrowed. Then he exhales audibly. "Okay. I'm just glad you're alright."

"Well, I better be on my way," Helga says. "Gotta tell Miriam I'm not dying."

She reaches out her hand and pats Arnold roughly on the back. "Thanks for worrying about me, and stuff. See ya on the flip side."

* * *

The flip side, as it turns out, is not too far away. Arnold doesn't hold grudges against Helga.

Stella just knows.

* * *

The night he leaves is warm and sticky, the beginning of a springtime storm. Thunder swells and crackles outside. Rain hits the windows in heavy sheets.

And still, he wants to go, his excitement apparently unscathed by the foreboding weather.

"Arnold, are you sure you want to take Helga out tonight?" Miles asks uncertainly. He peers out of the living room window for about the fifth time inside of half an hour, his face filled with incredulity.

"You could always reschedule, honey," Stella adds. "If you waited until the weather was nice, you could sit outside, in the sunshine, and you could-"

"We're going tonight," Arnold says firmly, and Stella recognizes the stubbornness in his voice. "It's Helga's birthday dinner, Mom, we can't just reschedule."

"I'm sure she would understand if you suggested tomorrow night instead," Miles says reasonably. "It looks pretty bad out there, Arnold."

But Arnold just shakes his head. "No, she wouldn't understand. I told her I would make tonight special for her. I'm not going to let a little rain ruin that."

A loud clap of thunder rumbles around them; it's accompanied by a bolt of lightning that briefly paints the dark sky outside with yellow. Arnold tugs at the bottom of his sweater nervously, his eyes focused on the window.

Stella tries to smile. "And what do you have planned for tonight?"

"We're going out for a nice dinner," Arnold tells them. He's so focused on the window that he fails to notice Phil and Gertie slipping into the room, a slew of the boarding house residents following in their wake. "Cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Then I'm taking her to the arcade. We'll stay there as long as she wants to. And then I'm going to give her her surprise."

"Her surprise?" Miles and Stella repeat in unison. Phil stops in his tracks with his eyebrows raised with interest.

Arnold's face suddenly flushes red. He looks down, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Well... her birthday surprise..."

He reaches into the back pocket of his pants and extracts a tiny white box.

"Jumpin Jehosaphats, short man, you're sure getting impatient," Phil exclaims, unable to help himself. Arnold turns towards the gathering crowd in the doorway with surprise and further embarrassment. "I always thought you were the type who would wait till you were thirteen before getting married, but then again we Shortmans have always had, shall we say, our own way of doing things."

" _Grandpa_ ," Arnold protests, rolling his eyes, while some of the boarders behind them begin to assess the situation with their own strands of commentary.

"He's getting married?" exclaims Ernie Potts. "Well I'll be damned, that happened fast."

"When Arnold moves out with his fiancé, can I haf his room? You know how cramped our room is, Grandpa, we need a bigger one."

"No, and stop calling me Grandpa, you freeloading little bottom-feeder!"

"Oh, Oskar, Arnold is not moving out of the boarding house," Suzie snaps. "He can't get married, he's a little boy."

But Gertie clasps her hands together, looking back and forth from Arnold to Phil. "Oh how wonderful, a wedding! Make sure you invite Queen Isabella of Castile," she says, wagging her pointer finger at Arnold and smiling mischievously. "She was at my wedding, you know, and I promised her she could come to my grandson's someday."

Arnold sighs heavily.

"It's just a necklace," he clarifies to the room. Cautiously, he removes the lid of the box to reveal a silver chain with a brightly painted pink heart pendant lying on gauze cushioning. His face reddens even more deeply.

The necklace must have cost five or six dollars; it's the kind of jewelry that will be rusted in two months' time. Arnold closes the lid again and turns the box over in his hands, directing his gaze back toward the window.

Stella feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, Arnold," she tells her little boy. "I think Helga will love that."

"Really?" Arnold says uncertainly.

"It's perfect," Stella assures him, and Miles, Phil, and Gertie nod in support, their smiles wide and encouraging.

Arnold looks momentarily relieved, returning their looks with a tentative smile of his own.

"Women love jewelry," Suzie adds. "It's thoughtful and pretty. The perfect gift to show someone you really care about them." She casts a hopeful glance in her husband's direction, but Oskar is still preoccupied with disappointment over his foiled plan to move into Arnold's room.

"I wanted to get her tickets to WrestleMania, too," Arnold continues with a twinge of regret in his voice. "That's her favorite. But they were sold out until June, and that was when I checked a month ago."

"Well, short man, she'll like this just fine," Phil tells him with certainty.

"If you say so." Arnold exhales a breath of air, suddenly looking very serious. He looks down at his watch. "I better get going."

"Have fun, Arnold! Show her what you're made of."

"Don't order the raspberries!"

"If you want to consider marriage, remember eet's never too early, think of how happy you would be if you moved out, found your own place - "

"Be safe," Stella mumbles, giving her son's shoulders a squeeze. "I love you."

Arnold makes his way towards the hall to grab an umbrella. He shuts the front door after him. Through the window, they all watch him hurrying down the sidewalk in the heavy downpour.

"They grow up so fast," Mr. Hyun sniffles, wiping a tear from his eye. "Sometimes, I can't believe it."

* * *

Five hours later, Stella is sitting at the edge of Arnold's bed - her heart in her stomach, her eyes on his face. He's so sleepy, and so happy.

"Do you still miss them? The Green Eyes?" Arnold asks softly.

"I do," Stella tells him. "I always will. But I love being home with you. I would rather be here than anywhere else on the planet."

Arnold smiles.

"So how did it go tonight?" she asks him.

His smile broadens in a dreamy kind of way. "It was fun."

"You survived the rain."

"Yup. We got dinner and shakes. We went to the arcade. Helga beat me at everything. But that's okay. I knew she would."

"And did you give her the gift?"

Arnold's eyes are beginning to close. He leans his head back against his pillow, swallowed up in his blankets. "Yes."

"And?"

"And... well... she kissed me... again," he says, blushing brightly. "So I think she liked it."

Stella smiles. "I'm so glad." She pauses, and, after a moment of considering him, adds, "So no bedtime story tonight, huh? You look a little too tired."

He is. He's already half-asleep, barely listening to what she's saying to him. She's not prepared for what comes next.

"Mom, what does it feel like to be in love with someone?"

Her heart climbs into her throat. "Well, honey... I - "

"Not just like them like them," Arnold continues softly, his eyes still closed. "But really love them?"

"Well," Stella responds after a moment, trying to swallow the rust in her throat with her head spinning. "I can't speak for everyone. But for me it feels like... it's when you realize you would do anything for someone. When their happiness becomes as important as your own. It doesn't happen overnight, I don't think."

There's a long moment of silence. Arnold's eyelashes flutter, his breath moving in and out audibly. Just as Stella is beginning to think he fell asleep, his mouth opens again.

"I want her to be happy more than anything," Arnold mumbles. His voice is glazed with the edges of happiness and sleep. "I think about her more than anyone in the world."

"Is that so?" Stella asks casually, choking back her tears for what feels like the hundredth time in the span of a few days.

But she receives only his soft snores in answer.

* * *

The phone call comes at nearly midnight - long after the other boarders have already gone to sleep.

At first, Stella can't help but wonder if the person on the other end of the line is some sort of teenager pranking her. "Hello? Hello?" she says repeatedly into the receiver, but all she can hear is muffled breathing.

Just as she's about to hang up, the caller tries a little harder.

"Sarah." The voice is meek, but somehow heavy - distraught, laden with tears.

"Miriam?" Stella asks, suddenly clutching the phone with two hands. "Is that you? What's wrong?"

The breathing on the other end turns into full-blown weeping. Miriam Pataki's voice is barely distinguishable, rusted and choked.

"It's - I just..."

"Yes," Stella replies automatically. "Whatever you need, the answer is yes."

The crying continues for several moments, punctuated by sniffles and a few failed attempts to get more words out.

"I'm here," Stella says soothingly. "I'm right here."

Finally, Miriam stops crying for long enough to speak.

"I just w-wanted to tell you, I've been sober all day."

"That's wonderful."

"It hurts so much."

"It's okay for it to hurt."

"One - day - " Miriam heaves into the phone. "And I f-feel like this. I'm pathetic. I can't do this."

"You're not pathetic, Miriam. You're trying so hard."

"It's no wonder my own daughter hates me," Miriam continues. Stella can hear the pain splintering from her voice in jagged shards. "She and B - all the things they say - they're r-right. I can't do anything right."

"Helga doesn't hate you," Stella says softly. "She's twelve years old. She needs time."

"I don't t-think time will be enough."

"Not on its own," Stella agrees. "She needs time and she needs love."

"I do love her. I love her so much."

"I know. Tell me about your day, Miriam."

"Well," Miriam says, her voice still shaking. "Olga came home to the Beeper Emporium for Helga's birthday. She made us all w-waffles and omelets for breakfast."

"That sounds nice."

"Oh, it's always nice when Olga is home. We were having a nice day. She was telling us all about her classes, and her sorority, and the poor s-suffering children. Except then - it was the strangest thing - I realized out of nowhere it was almost four in the afternoon and none of us had seen Helga for hours."

"What do you mean?" Stella asks hesitantly.

"Well, that's... she was just... hiding out in her room for most of the day, I guess," Miriam responds, suddenly sounding very confused. "So I went and I found her and I said, 'Helga, sweetie, don't you want to join us, your sister was just telling us about how the girls of Kappa Kappa Chi crowned her with the Shiniest Hair award and Best Smile award _and_ Best Bikini Figure award, isn't that exciting?'"

Stella bites her lower lip in horror. For a moment, she is rendered temporarily incapable of speaking.

"But Helga was s-so angry," Miriam continues sadly. "She wouldn't even speak to me. She left to go out somewhere tonight in the pouring rain and I d-don't even know where she went. I - don't understand... I j-just... she's always angry. But she never tells me what's wrong. Why can't she just tell me what's wrong?"

Stella allows the silence to drag on for a few moments.

"Miriam," she says finally, gently. "You need to ask Helga about Helga."

"...What do you mean?"

"Ask her about the softball team she co-captains. Ask her about her friends. Ask her about her poetry."

"But.. I... she won't tell me any of those things." The agony breaks open in Miriam's voice. "She doesn't trust me with any of that."

"She'll open up to you," Stella assures her. "She will. She just needs to know that you care."

* * *

The air is raw and cold when Stella finally gets into bed. The sounds of car horns and sirens drizzle in through the bedroom window, mingling with the clattering radiator and shuffling boarding house ghosts.

Miles is still sitting up against his pillow, leafing through the pages of his favorite book. A collaborative project compiled by various members of the Green Eyes, each page features a drawing of a natural miracle - a blood moon, a celestial dance, a rumbling volcano silenced to complete stillness - captioned by the indigenous people's explanation for its source.

"Good night," Miles tells her. He leans over and kisses her. His lips linger against hers for several moments, and Stella closes her eyes, lost inside of him.

"Good night," she returns.

He smiles slowly. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

For a moment, the gentleness in his voice makes her want to cry. She could sing love songs up to the heavens, to the huge moon and the mysterious sun, but they wouldn't compare to the songs she would sing to the man beside her.

"Alive," she tells him finally.

And she is.

* * *

It seems unusual that her son hasn't come down to the kitchen yet, by seven-thirty the next morning. She's just getting ready to finish cleaning up downstairs and head to his room to make sure his alarm clock went off.

Stella is a bit shocked when she enters the living room to find two children splayed out on the couch.

Helga is fast asleep, snoring softly with her head in Arnold's lap. She's wearing his red flannel shirt as a blanket. The heart pendant necklace he'd given her the day before is hanging from her neck, dangling over the edge of the couch cushion. Arnold is still in his pajamas, rubbing her back absentmindedly with one hand and holding a battered paperback copy of _A Coffin for Dimitrios_ with the other.

He smiles when he looks up and sees his mother.

"Oh, hey, Mom," he tells her.

Stella smiles back. "Hi, honey. That's an interesting looking book you have there."

"This?" Arnold says, shrugging. "Yeah, Grandpa gave it to me. He just can't get enough of these spy novels, so I thought I would try it." He hesitates for a moment. "I'm not sure it's really my kind of thing."

Stella laughs. Then she gestures towards the girl in his lap. "When did Helga get here?"

"Oh... she showed up at five AM." The look Arnold gives his mother is full of heart wrenching worry. "She must have climbed up the fire escape and come in through my window. I woke up and she was just there, shaking me and breathing in my face. Things weren't going too well for her at home, Mom. She's a little tired."

Stella stares at her son for a moment, watching the way his hand continues to move in slow, gentle circles across Helga's shoulder blades.

"Maybe you should call her parents," Arnold suggests, biting his lip. "They might be worried."

Stella opens her mouth, then closes it again.

"You're right," she manages. "They might be worried."

But, somehow, in spite of it all, a strange sense of calm is beginning to metastasize inside of her chest. It fills her up. It begins to trickle into the crevices in her heart - spreading over the cavities, the gaps, the holes.

"It's almost time to go, isn't it?" Arnold asks her, folding his book closed. "I better get her up."

He starts to prod Helga lightly on the cheek. When her snores only grow louder, he leans down and kisses her on the forehead. Her eyelashes flutter open.

"Helga, wake up. It's time to get ready for school."

She blinks up at him for a moment before wrapping her arms more tightly around his chest, grumbling something that sounds like "Carry me."

"No, I'm not carrying you," Arnold says, laughing. "Come on. My mom will make us something to eat, and then we have to get going."

"Your mom?" Helga repeats sleepily. She yawns, and then suddenly sits up with a confused look on her face, as if having forgotten how she ended up here.

Arnold brushes a stray lock of sunshine hair out of her face. Gently, he takes her hands and helps her to her feet.

The two of them will walk to school together, Stella thinks.

She'll try her best not to trail behind them.

* * *

Stella isn't sure why she waits so long to open the box.

Two weeks pass by - then three, then four. She had moved the cardboard box carefully from the front hall to the back of her bedroom closet when the little girl who gave it to her left. It's been sitting there ever since, its flaps still taped firmly shut, resting between a pair of old sandals and a pile of wire coat hangers.

Perhaps, she thinks, she's afraid of more sadness.

She has gone through the photos in Phil and Gertie's shoebox enough times to memorize their every line and crease. She can recite Arnold's smile in these pictures from memory; list each of the photographs' pockmarking of red dates in perfect sequence. Adding a whole new slew of missed memories to this arrangement is both tantalizing and nerve wracking.

Someday, she thinks, she might open what Helga gave to her. But for the moment, she doesn't need any more clues to the past.

She needs the life she's living: right here, right now.


	3. On Happily Ever Afters

**Author's Note:**

It's short, but it's the end. Let me know what you think, and stuff.

Thank you again for reading. So much love to you.

 **3: On Happily Ever Afters**

Summer comes in droves of mosquitoes and throngs of bikini-clad teenagers who giggle their way through the streets of Hillwood, their arms laden with brightly colored beach towels and the occasional bottle of beer.

Stella herself is not a fan of community pools. She'd rather be in her own space. She's better off cooled by the oscillating wall fan in the bedroom than trapped in those congested cement squares with barely an inch of breathing room in the chlorinated water. Miles, she knows, feels the same way.

But their son - never having lived outside of the city - sees everything differently.

So they find themselves slathering sunscreen on their faces on a clear, blue-skied morning, listening carefully to Arnold's instructions.

"I know you're a little nervous about this," he tells his mother soothingly. "But we'll be there to help you out if you need anything. Dad grew up here, he knows how it is. Anyway, we don't have to stay too long if it's really crowded."

An impatient knock rattles against the front door. Carefully placing the several bags of potato chips in his arms into the duffel bag on the coffee table, Arnold goes to answer it.

" _Criminy_ , it's already like a hundred and twelve degrees."

"I know. It's way too hot," Arnold tells Helga, leading her back into the living room with him. She's dressed in denim cutoff shorts and a one-piece bathing suit, the growing curves on her spindly body highlighted by the tight material. Arnold looks like he's fighting to keep his eyes from straying towards her chest. Helga, clearly taking notice of this, immediately turns a violent shade of red. Stella looks away from the two of them quickly.

"If we go now," Miles says, "We might beat the crowd."

Helga shrugs. "Eh, hard to tell. Public pools are public pools. There're sweaty bodies everywhere, day and night. Gerald and Pheebs should already be there, though. They said they'd meet us."

"Let's just get going," Stella suggests.

Arnold smiles proudly at her. "You're being really brave about this, Mom."

"For you, honey," she tells him, holding her hands over her heart. "I'd do anything."

* * *

"I'd do anything," Miriam tells the girl in front of her, whose blonde pigtails are still dripping with water, "For you."

Helga looks like she's battling internally with the urge to smile. The corners of her mouth twitch uneasily, her eyes stony and guarded. She's a tough little girl, Stella thinks. She'll be tougher, still, by this time next year, when she's a hormonal teenager in full force.

"Well, jeez, Miriam," Helga says. Her tone is filled with its usual calculated nonchalance. "You don't have to get all cheesy on me."

In response, the aging woman takes an audible breath, leans over, and throws her arms around her daughter, hands kneading desperately into the sweat-coated skin of Helga's neck.

Helga lets out a surprised little gasp, clenching her own arms at her sides as if she wouldn't for all the world know what else to do with them.

Stella looks at Arnold, whose suntanned face is radiating with affection. His half-lidded gaze never leaves the scene in front of them; his smile buttery, contented.

"I love you, Helga," Miriam says. Her voice shakes as she extracts her hands from around her daughter and straightens up.

Helga stares at her, lips pursed.

"I'm trying harder for you," Miriam says. There's a blindness in her voice; a sightlessness, like a person grasping for straws in the dark. Still, she's trying. She's trying to find the straws.

"I know," Helga replies, uncharacteristically quiet.

"It's going to be different," Miriam promises. "Things are going to get better around here for you."

Helga opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again. From a back closet somewhere deep in the bowels of the store, they hear a husky voice booming out, muffled by walls and several layers of tossed-aside clothes.

"Miriam!" Bob Pataki demands. "Where in blue blazes is my lucky white belt?"

"Give me a minute, B!" Miriam calls back. "I'm talking to Helga!"

"Olga?" Bob retorts loudly.

" _Helga_!" Miriam corrects him. "She went to the pool with her little boyfriend Archie today! His mom's my best friend, you know!"

"He's not my _boyfriend_ ," Helga says automatically, flustered.

"I'm not?" Arnold asks.

"I - well - I mean - "

"I thought..." Arnold trails off, rubbing the back of his neck and suddenly flushing dark red. "I mean, I know we never, you know, _said_ it, quite like that, but I thought..."

"You - well - I - " Helga stammers. "Criminy, Arnoldo, do you _want_ to be?"

Arnold stares at her for a long moment, searching her anxious face for clues. She's good at hiding - mostly - but this time she's unable to contain the hope in her eyes.

"Yes," he says finally, softly. "Yes, I do."

Helga's trembling mouth quirks upward.

"Do you?" Arnold asks quickly. "Want me to be?"

She rolls her eyes, as though he couldn't have asked a dumber question. Then, shaking slightly, she seems to make a hasty decision in her mind. She strides forward, clenches the collar of his T-shirt with two hands, and kisses him quickly on the mouth.

"Doi," she pants, releasing him in seconds flat with so much force that he nearly topples backwards into the display tree of beepers by the doorframe.

Miriam clasps her hands to her cheeks. "Ohhhh, that... is... _wonderful_ , sweetie!"

Both kids turn to glance at her in surprise, as though they'd forgotten they weren't the only ones there.

Stella clears her throat. "We should probably get going soon, Arnold," she says, patting her son on the shoulder to remind him of her presence. Even from inside, they can see the edges of the magenta lights from atop the Beeper Emporium glimmering down and pooling against the windows, their bright hue illuminated in the growing dark.

"Miriam!" Bob yells again. "How do you expect me to do well on this sales pitch tomorrow if I'm not wearing my _big. Lucky. Belt_?"

"Bye," Arnold says quickly, regaining his composure enough to take Helga's hand and softly squeeze it.

* * *

Happily ever afters are only for storybooks, her father had once told her.

She was ten years old, and not at all pleased by this insight. She wanted a _princess_ ending. Someday, she thought, a prince - hopefully one who would like microscopes and diagrams of the human nervous system, just like her - would fall in love with her. He would carry her off into the sunset. They would sing sweet songs and they would live in a foreverland of grass and wild animals; an eternal heaven of light and laughter.

It hasn't happened quite like that.

But her father was wrong, she still thinks. There are plenty of happily ever afters.

They're dynamic - not stagnant. They grow and they shift and they bleed, full of open wounds and hot tears. Occasionally, the people inside of the stories fall down a hole for nine years. Sometimes there are recurring nightmares - bottles of vodka - antidepressants. Sometimes broken brides and sometimes hearts that can't help but sear with pain. It's the love that matters. As long as there's love, then there are happily ever afters - they still count.

* * *

"It's strange to think about, isn't it, Stella?" Miles muses. His fingers knot together with hers, his hands sticky against her wrists in the August heat. "Arnold starting the seventh grade soon?"

"It's very strange," she says, smiling. "It's not easy to process."

Miles stares at her. He's studying her face, his eyes full of wondering.

"You're happy," he says finally.

She looks back at him, and she nods.

He opens the front door and they head for the park, still holding hands.


End file.
